


Pay For The Sight (of a lover underneath you)

by gala_apples



Series: Shameless First Impressions [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, Exhibitionism, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, M/M, Poor sex ed, Rough Sex, Season/Series 04, Sex Work, but sober during sex, canon typical language, mentioned drug use, they think condoms aren't needed for oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: In one world Mickey convinced Ian to blackmail and lightly beat a closeted guy to get the hush-money for Svetlana. In the next one over, a different solution was found.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Shameless First Impressions [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724326
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Pay For The Sight (of a lover underneath you)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'rush'.
> 
> I am endlessly fascinated by Mickey’s commitment to stay closeted and yet constantly have sex in public locations. It’s not like he got caught once and stopped because he realized the mistake either. When Frank catches them at the Kash and Grab Mickey attempts to murder him over it, goes to jail and fucks a bunch of random guys, presumably in semi-public places because how private can you get in a jail, and when he’s released it’s right back to fucking outdoors and in the basement of a church/reception hall. Some part of him desperately wants to be seen, even if it's dangerous for him.

The thing is Mickey needs fuckin’ money, and he needs it right now. He’s a Milkovich, he’s got a hundred schemes in his pocket, but most of them require set up. Weapons. A getaway car. Accomplices. Mickey can’t afford to split the take with all his cousins. Not to mention he doesn’t want any of those fucks to ask why he needs the money. Saying ‘my cunt wife is blackmailing me because I smoke pole’ would go over pretty goddamn badly.

Kevin’s useless ass hands over an envelope with two hundred thirty dollars in it. It’s a start, but it’s less than half of what the whore wants. That leaves Mickey scrambling. Mandy can spare forty. As usual she claims she’s going to charge interest, but that’s been her standard since she was three and told Iggy if she gave him her last lollipop now he’d owe her two. Milkoviches unite outside of the house, a herd menace to the lone antelope, but in the house it’s everyone for themselves. Mickey takes the two Jacksons, then jogs over to the Gallaghers. Maybe Ian will have some of his tips tucked away. Or maybe Ian can convince Lip to spot him something. Lip’s smart and surrounded by rich college kids, there’s no way he’s not making bank on card counted poker or some shit.

No one’s at the Gallaghers except Debbie. Mickey knows there’s no point in asking her. Lip knows, and he’s pretty fuckin’ sure Fiona does, though he hasn’t actually broached the fuckin’ subject. The younger ones don’t know shit, and he’s not saying shit. Kids run their mouths, don’t know not to. No way Debbie’s gonna give him cash to save Ian’s ass if she doesn’t even know they’re together. He takes off again, this time for Fairy Tail. Ian has to show up sooner or later.

There’s this moment though, outside the club. Every fucking time Mickey goes he has one of these goddamn moments where another queer guy, like, _sees_ him and calls him out. Here, and that fucking gay condo party Ian took him to days ago. Being in one of these fucking places is like sticking your hand into a ball of live wires. Impossible to say which one is going to get you, but knowing you’re gonna get knocked to the floor. And the fuckin’ thing is, the thing Mickey’s never going to admit to Ian lest he get some crazy ideas, is it’s almost good. He’s spent nineteen years perfecting the art of being a one of a million Milkovich. Different haircut, same unwashed body and knife collection. These guys don’t see Milkovich number thirty. They just see a fellow queer. It’s unsettling enough that he makes sure to kick half their asses, but he also hasn’t not picked Ian up from a shift in a week. 

But no, there are more important things on his mind than the way that Asian stud just cruised him. Mickey needs fucking money for the bitch, or his dad cuts each of his fingers off with hedge clippers and makes him eat them. Ian was traumatised, the last time Terry caught them. Cried silently on the couch as Svetlana raped him as instructed and Mickey had to put on the show of his life. Made big speeches about love afterward while Mickey was busy trying to save them both. Sucks to be Ian and his trauma, because Mickey knows pistol whipping and forced sex is Terry’s milk and cookies, ponies and fuckin’ unicorns. Next time it’s going to be serious. It’s going to be real, and Ian will be lucky if he’s only killed. So Kevin can talk big all he wants about needing money for his multiple babies, but Mickey’s got something precious to protect too.

About a million fucking years of standing in front of the club later, Ian finally jogs up. Mickey pops the smoke out of his mouth to shout “hey, where the hell you been?”

“Jesus.”

“I went to your house, you weren’t there.”

“My shift’s starting.”

Yeah, no fucking shit, Sherlock. “Look, you got any money on you?”

“Few bucks, why?”

Well, shit. That fucking sucks. “I need more than that.”

“What for?”

“My bitch of a wife thinks I owe her something. Like I’m the only guy who ever dropped a fuckin’ load in her.”

Mickey’s interrupted then, by some assclown with a Rolex and an S-Class rolling up and trying to hire them to double team him. Mickey makes him fuck off, as per standard. Funny how something as basic as a thrown glass bottle and a threat to break someone’s spine can scare off a bitch. Ian says hooking offers happen all the time, which doesn’t surprise Mickey. Ian is hot shit. But it does hit him with an epiphany like a claw hammer to the back of the skull. 

Mickey follows Ian into Fairy Tail. He’s silent, busy trying to figure out if this is the best idea ever, or if he’s a sick fuck who should blow his brains out, or if he’s about to fuck up everything that matters, ie: the mask, and Ian. It’s not like he can ask for any goddamn advice. Sure Mandy knows, but that doesn’t mean they fuckin’ listen to each other. If they did, she wouldn’t be dating a wife beater. Mickey’s gonna allow that to a point, and no further. Maybe a good dick and a steady paycheck are enough to outweigh the black eyes now, but the second Kenyatta proposes he’s getting macheted to bits and composted over three blocks of South Wallace. No one else fuckin’ knows, except Lip, and Mickey’s sure the shit not floating his idea by him. Not only would Lip threaten to kick his ass for about ten different reasons, he’s also got enough to deal with now that Fiona’s like a coke whore or whatever. So once fucking again, that means he has to figure shit out for himself.

It’s twenty minutes, four vodka and oranges, and three lap dances before Mickey accosts Ian. Yanks him by his cute ass little tie necklace. “Tell your boss you gotta go home sick.”

“What. Jealous already? Usually it takes longer.”

Usually it takes zero fuckin’ seconds at all, Mickey’s just getting better at managing his emotions to not fuck with Ian’s career. 

“Tell your boss you’ve got the runs and you need to go home before you shit on the customers.”

“And then?” Ian teases, obviously certain this is a booty call. Well, he’s not entirely wrong.

“Then I have to fuckin’ talk to you.”

Mickey doesn’t think he has much of a range. He’s got baseline, which is flat affect pissed off, he’s got threatening, which is flat affect menace, and he’s got flirting, which is flat affect but teasing. And that last only comes up with Ian. Everyone else he just asked if they wanted to fuck, or implied they could in juvie. But Ian’s always seeing through him, picking up things that no one else notices. Ian knows Mickey has shit to say, can pick through the constantly dead tone to see he’s serious, and in five minutes he’s out of the staff room in normal winter clothes and they’re walking to a diner. 

Honey’s Diner is the first place they see that looks like the cooks might wash their hands after they take a piss. On the way in Mickey notices it’s got a fuckin’ pride flag in the window, because Boystown is like that. The waiter that shows them to their booth is probably assuming they’re together, not just friends. Yeah, there’s that twisted fuckin’ feeling of bring acknowledged, which makes Mickey want to curb stomp him, or at least _want_ to want to. 

Mickey knows Ian won’t want to eat now. Not all coked up. He also knows that it’s been a while and he should, so he buys an order of fries and gives Ian the ketchup bottle. Hopefully somewhere in the constantly moving hands and the light wave fast speech he’ll start compulsively eating. Having or not having the three bucks at the end of the night isn’t going to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“So you know I need money for that Russian whore.”

“Svetlana?”

“How many other Russian whores I know?” Mickey snaps.

“A lot, actually,” Ian giggles.

“Cute,” Mickey snaps again so he doesn’t smile at the asshole who’s delighted about being so funny. “So I was thinking, go to a hotel bar, a real fancy fuckin’ place, and find some rich perv who will pay to watch us fuck.”

“What the fuck?”

“Make in one hour what it’d take you a week of shifts to make.” 

“I thought you just pimped women,” Ian frowns.

“I’ll be there too, asshole.” He does not like this assumption that Ian thinks he wants to sell him. He would gut a thousand people like fish before he pimped Ian. But getting paid for a show is different.

“You want to pimp both of us,” Ian attempts to clarify.

“It’s fucking both of us or neither, bitch.”

Mickey doesn’t have a problem with sex work, or the workers. Apparently neither do the elite, if Ian’s dissertation writing friend is to be believed. It’s trendy to like hookers now or something. He doesn’t know. Believe it or not, Mickey Milkovich isn’t a big trend follower. He’s fine with it because it’s like any other job. Do some shit, pretend to care about other people, get paid. Who cares if that’s a waitress, a psychologist, or a hooker. Fuck’s it matter? Never crossed that line before, but only because he was so busy on the blackmailing, enforcing and robbery side of the illegal career fence.

“You really wanna do this? You’re not gonna snap and reverse gay panic murder him mid-fuck, are you? Cleaning up a body seems like it’d be hard. Burying a body and cutting toes off a body are hard.”

What the fuck? It sounds like cocaine rambling bullshit, but they’re South Side, and Ian doesn’t lie. At some point he probably did bury his first body. “It’s about boundaries. If he touches you, or me, I’ll kill him. Otherwise we’re getting paid for something we’d do anyway.” 

“Oh yeah?” Ian questions.

“Tell me that I couldn’t fuck you in the bathroom right now, that you wouldn’t want it.” Bullets of fear and lust rip through him at the same time, knowing that in a place like this he could take a man to the bathroom and make obvious noises and people would know and he wouldn’t get clubbed to death with a rolling pin. Mickey’s never made a batch of cookies in his life, but the house owns three stained rolling pins. Wonder why that is.

“You should. Fuck me in the bathroom, that is. Just head though. We’ll save the fucking for the show.”

Mickey thinks back to a few mornings ago, when Ian promised to come back to the house under the condition that Mickey blow him whenever he wants. Ian’s side of that deal didn’t really work out, since Mickey’s taken the wiser path of chilling at Ian’s rather than bringing Ian back home. That doesn’t mean that Mickey can’t fulfill his side. He stands up and crooks his head towards the back of the diner. “Come on.”

They leave their coffee and fries cooling on the table and cross the restaurant only to freeze for a second at the two bathroom doors. Instead of the guy and girl outlines, one door has a mermaid and the other has a- what the fuck, a horse person thing? Ian breaks the pause, finally, pushing open the mermaid door. Mickey glances around. There are two empty stalls and a urinal. There’s no lock on the door, but Mickey doesn’t anticipate this taking long. He pushes Ian into the nearest stall and crowds him against the toilet so he can squeeze in. 

Mickey doesn’t even wait for Ian to undo his jeans before he’s on his knees. He gets the pleasure of licking Ian’s knuckles before pushing his hand out of the way and opening the zipper with his teeth. He nuzzles his face against the bulge of Ian’s dick, the metal of the zipper scratching his cheeks. Then Ian’s impatience kicks in and he shoves his boxer briefs down. There he is, there’s his sexy ass Firecrotch. Mickey sticks his tongue out and licks a sloppy wet line up Ian’s length. His baby comes in at a solid eight and a half inches, something he’d love to brag about the way Iggy goes on and on about his Christine having double E cups.

Mickey gags on it. Of course he does. The only good blowjob is a blowjob that leaves you with tears in the corners of your eyes and gasping for breath. He heaves himself onto Ian’s cock, over and over, as fast as he can. Ian’s fingers tangle into his hair, pulling the way he loves. At some point he reaches down, fumbles blindly for his belt and gets his hand down his underwear. It feels so fucking right to have Ian’s cock in his mouth and his cock in his hand. Moments like these are why he has to keep being gay a secret. He wants this to keep happening, he doesn’t want his face split open by the side of a gun or Ian’s throat fucking slit.

Mickey sucks, and he strokes it, and Ian’s not groaning, he grew up in a house with five siblings, two parents, and frequent parties and guests, he knows how the fuck to keep quiet. Mickey gets it, and part of him appreciates it. And the other part thinks about Ian moaning so loud that the staff gather around the bathroom door, scared to come in and get an eyeful. 

Ian comes into his mouth on an out-stroke, and coats Mickey’s entire fucking mouth with jizz. Tongue, roof of his mouth, he’s gonna be flossing it out of his fuckin’ gums tonight. Mickey dives back forward and keeps Ian fully in his mouth as he softens, keeping his cock warm as he jerks off frantically. Once Mickey sprays across the floor, and a little on Ian’s left shoe, he pulls off. He swallows down a mouth full of spit and come, then rests his head against Ian’s pelvis. He’s gotta catch his breath. 

He’s still resting when Ian once breaks the stillness, this time to pull Mickey’s face so they can look at each other. “He might have opinions on who should top.”

“How fucking nice for him,” Mickey sneers. Bottoming is about a million times better, but it’s not like he’s incapable of topping. It was kind of the only choice back when he was fucking girls too, and it doesn’t do to let someone make a wife out of you in juvie. Really it’s Ian who has to watch out. Unless some shit happened with that bitch Kash or that old prick Ned, Ian’s only ever topped. Mickey’s not having his first time be under the eye of some rich perv. No fuckin’ way.

“You want to pick him, or should I?”

“You fuckin’ do it. You know how to clean up your language and shit, appeal to the rich little fruits.” Besides, Mickey fuckin’ cares if Ian feels comfortable doing this shit. If Ian picks the guy, then it’ll be someone who doesn’t skeeve him the fuck out. 

They head back to the Gallagher house first. Ian’s full of ideas on the way back, non stop chattering. He wants to find out what a sextant is and then own one. He wants watermelon flavouring to taste more like actual watermelon. He wants to play a character in the hotel lobby. It’s a bit much. Ian’s been kind of a bit much all the time, lately. But it’s fine. He’s going through his coke phase. It happens. It’s a fuck of a lot better than a PCP phase. PCP is fun only to the person doing it, everyone else suffers. Once inside they change into clothes better suited for luring in a client and quickly leave. Every minute spent inside the Gallagher house is another minute risked getting drawn into some kind of explosive drama. Mickey has a pretty high tolerance with that shit, considering his own upbringing, but he literally can’t afford it right now.

The smartest choice is a hotel in Boystown. If you’re sleeping in a place surrounded by fags, the chance you’re a fag yourself is much higher. Mickey takes a minute to look up hotel rates on his phone, and they crash the bar of the hotel with the most expensive rate per night. Mickey stays back, buys himself a fifth vodka-orange, and nurses it. He hasn’t gotten drunk on five mixed drinks since he was nine, so that’s not the problem. He just can’t afford to pay ten fucking dollars for a drink twice, and who knows how long it’ll take to get shit underway.

Ian looks good cleaned up. Well, no, he looks good every which way. Bruised and bleeding, running away from the cops, doing pull ups and maintaining his ROTC body, in go go shorts at the club. But cleaned up works for him too. Doesn’t surprise Mickey a bit that by the third man Ian approaches they’ve got a customer. He doesn’t know exactly how Ian sold ‘wanna watch me and my boyfriend have sex’, but when the prick looks over at him Mickey gives a jaunty little wave like this is all so adorable. The guy is a silver fox, because Ian has this goddamn thing about older men. At least he knows the dumbfuck isn’t going to dump him for a younger model when they’re both forty.

“This is Dave,” Ian says, bringing the man over to him with a hand on his lower back. “He has a room on the sixteenth floor.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey replies. He’s Dave as much as Ian is Curtis at the club, and since Mickey won’t be talking to the old buzzard he sure the hell isn’t going to be retaining the name.

“You want to see it, I’m told?” he says it like it’s cute, like he’s trying to flirt with the hookers he just picked up. Mickey’s pretty sure the Russians don’t have to put up with this shit, but maybe it’s because of the class of clientele. Seventeen dollar handjobs and five hundred dollar voyeurism bring different personalities to the experience.

“Uh huh,” Mickey repeats.

“Come with me, boys,” fuckface purrs. Ian steers him towards the elevator before he can do something stupid like touch Mickey. 

They’re on the second floor in the slowly gliding elevator when the john asks “you two like it rough?”

“Whatever you’re into,” Ian answers before Mickey can say anything. Mickey doesn’t generally want to be so agreeable to some sleazebag john, but in this particular case, he’s okay with it. He likes rough, so the john trying to lure them into saying yes is like luring a fat kid to a cake.

“I’d love to see it,” the john says. A shiver runs down Mickey’s spine as he’s reminded that someone can see what he and Ian do and not want to destroy it. That in some places, they’re okay. It’s so fucking unreal, sometimes, to imagine a world where being open doesn’t get you pistol whipped.

“Three floors left,” Ian says like a promise. His arm swings out casually and their hands brush each other. Mickey keeps the graze of knuckles until the metal doors slide open.

The room is a suite, nicer than Mickey’s fucking house. They bypass the living area entirely, thank fuck, go straight for the bedroom. If this shit had had to include small talk, Mickey’s not sure he would have fuckin’ made it through. Ian’s the one who knows hospitality, how to groom clients for repeat lap dances.

Ian puts both hands on the man’s shoulders and pushes him down into the tasteful armchair. “You just settle right here, and get ready for the show.”

Mickey doesn’t react outwardly, but damn. If Ian ever said those words to him he’d sit back and let Firecrotch perform for him, no question. 

The john must agree, because he doesn’t make one move as Mickey and Ian strip down. Ian loses his clothes like it’s part of his job; like he’s an oiled up stripper, not a glittering go-go dancer. All sorts of little ass twitches and subtle body rolls and moments where he pauses with a hem in an erotic place. Mickey can’t take his fucking eyes off him. He doesn’t attempt to match Ian’s skill, just shucks his clothes off as quick as he can until they’re all in a heap on the floor.

Once Ian is fully nude, Mickey steps into his sphere. He tilts his head up for a kiss, and by the time Ian is done with his tongue Mickey’s half hard. Being watched doing this is such a fucking rush. Enough to make the world feel like it’s spinning.

It’s Ian who breaks the kiss to sink to one knee, like some sexy Olympian track runner. He unzips the backpack and reaches in for supplies. He tosses the bottle of lube onto the bed first, and then a box of condoms. The knife stays hidden, and will continue to, unless Daveyboy makes a big mistake.

“You’re boyfriends and you still use condoms?” the old man bitches.

“Maybe I don’t like jizz halfway up my intestines.” And if that’s not actually the reason why, well it’s none of the perv’s goddamn business anyway. Mickey’s never owned a single person the truth, and he’s not starting with a john. When it’s inconvenient he doesn’t even need to be honest to himself. So yeah, Mickey insists on condoms because he knows Ian won’t otherwise, and he doesn’t always know what’s happening at the back of the club, but that’s a conversation that won’t help anyone. Better to have an imperfect relationship than none at all. It’s the Milkovich way.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollar tip.”

“Fuck off, peanut gallery.”

Ian steps forward. “What Adam means to say is we’re gonna make it worth that tip, _with_ the condom. Now just sit back and watch, alright?”

Oh, he’s Adam, is he. Mickey wonders if Ian went with the standard Curtis, or if he came up with something new for this one time. 

Ian revels in another kiss with him. Mickey can taste the addiction in his throat. Ian’s always needed to be seen, even more than Mickey. Mickey might want it, but he’s smart enough to not attempt things that’ll get him killed. Ian’s more suicidal than that. Does shit like trying to stop the sham wedding. Shit like wearing barely there shorts and dancing in a neon lit cage. He needs his attention, and in this kiss, in this hotel room, he’s getting it.

Jesus fucking Christ Mickey loves it when Ian manhandles him. It’s missing a bit of the spice that the prick doesn’t know who he is, that he’s a goddamn Milkovich letting himself be pushed around, but not by much. Old prick can still see his thug to Ian’s pretty, can still assume the way it should go and be wrong. Plus there’s the plain fact of Ian’s hands on him, shoving and pulling until Mickey’s on his hands and knees on the bed. That’s just some undiluted good shit.

Ian doesn’t take a lot of time slicking him up. He never does. The first hundred times they fucked it was variations of outdoors, the Kash and Grab, and random abandoned warehouses, and always at completely random times. Half the time they didn’t have lube on them, just gobs of spit and the coating on the condom. Sure some gay dudes are fancy or delicate or some shit, but Mickey likes the pained edge of a quickly inserted cock. It’s like skinned knuckles after a fight, the sting lets you know you’re alive.

The condom wrapper crinkles when Ian opens it, letting Mickey know it’s almost time. A lube coated hand grabs his right asscheek and pulls it as far as he can out of the way. The head of Ian’s cock presses against his hole, and Mickey can’t help the way he rocks back on his knees to try to get Ian inside himself. When Mickey’s in the mood, even a second of waiting is too long. But finally Ian sticks the landing. He guides himself into Mickey, insistently pushing inside.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters lowly.

Mickey can feel the smug attitude rolling off Ian. It’s fine, it’s one of the things he likes about Ian. Conviction is sexy in a guy, even if he can get big and blown up about the wrong things sometimes. Ian pulls almost entirely out before jutting forward, slamming his pelvic bone into Mickey’s ass, balls bumping against his. Ian gives him a few slow hard thrusts to get used to the sensation, then quickens. Mickey bites down on a knuckle as Ian begins to set the pace. It’s wild the kind of exacting rhythm Ian has. He’s got the body for movement, and it might be a goddamn shame it went from ROTC perfect soldier to go-go dancer, but Mickey can’t see it that way because Ian covered in glitter and other men’s handprints touches him, and an Ian in Iraq could have never.

Ian fucks him like a saloon door whipping back and forth, all slapping noises and fast movement. Mickey loves it as is, just the sensation of getting plowed. He doesn’t even need his prostate touched, this is like giving his rim a handjob, being handled like this. Mickey could coast for a long fucking time, focusing on the stretch and pull. But Ian would never leave him like that. Either he cares about Mickey’s pleasure, or it’s the pride of being the perfect fuck. Who knows, who cares, when either reasoning ends in Ian nudging his leg against Mickey’s to push it into a different angle. Ass tilted like this, Ian gets his prostate on the next stroke.

“That’s it Gallagher, you got it. Fuck me. Yeah.” One could say his dirty talk isn’t very unique, but Ian fuckin’ likes the encouragement so fuck any haters. 

Besides, the talk covers the noise of the old perv jerking himself off. Mickey’s not going to stab him to death; as the owner of a rub and tug he understands about seeing shit through and giving the john the jizz they paid for. It’s just not as hot as he thought it would be. Apparently his dick thinks there’s a line between strangers looking at him and his boyfriend making him feel awesome and queasy, and strangers getting off on it making him want to cover his ears. It’s the difference of us being wanted by someone, and someone wanting us. It should be just phrasing, but it’s actually a huge shift. Mickey doesn’t think he’ll be doing this again. Which is fine. All schemes lose steam at some point. Hell, some don’t even make it out of brainstorming. No matter how many times Iggy says it, Mickey’s not going to steal a firetruck to use it to rob a gas station.

It’s too good to stop now though, too bite through your lip ecstatic. Mickey focuses on not coming yet. He wants to prolong this as much as possible. Every time Ian puts his cock in his ass, he remembers why he goes through the fear and chance of torturous death. Ian’s worth it. This kind of fuck is worth it. The last time Ian left him he was miserable. He can’t let it happen ever again, can’t let go of this goddamn amazing guy.

Ian comes first. Mickey knows it’s about to happen when Ian’s hands start balling into fists against Mickey’s ribcage. It’s always been his tell, as certain as a minute hand on a clock. Mickey throws himself back, trying to get Ian’s whole length in him as he comes. He squeezes down and feels Ian pulse inside him. Holy shit does that make Mickey feel good. He only wishes the hotel had a mirror over the bed, so he could see Ian’s face. Mickey loves the rare times they fuck laying down in a bed, because face to face sex means Mickey can see the muscles in Ian’s face tense as his mouth opens and his eyelids flutter. It’s always a sight to behold.

Showing the same level of energy he’s had since he went AWOL and became a slutty club kid, the moment Ian finishes orgasming he rolls Mickey like a gator, not even bothering to slip the condom off his dick first. Ian squirms down the bed as fast as can be and goes balls deep on Mickey’s cock. Ian can suck cock like a Russian whore, and Mickey would know. It’s only a minute or two of tantalizing tongue before Mickey’s spilling his load.

And that’s where the exhibitionist glee kicks back in, happening to see old perv panting like a bitch over the come slopping out of Ian’s lips as he sits up, open mouthed. That’s right, Mickey’s jizz is on Ian, and his ass is fucked open. Who wouldn’t find them perfectly made for each other? Weird how this is what gets him, when the other reactions didn’t. Kinks are completely fuckin’ arbitrary apparently. It’s why he doesn’t get the BDSM set. It’s all about planning and routine and roles. Mickey doesn’t have the control for that, and he sure the shit cannot abide consistency. Even in his subconscious, evidently, seeing as his sex drive can’t react the same way to an act every time.

They lay on the bed, making out, kissing each other back down from the heavens to where they’re grounded. Davey is finally completing his side of things, but Mickey barely hears it, focused on the sound of Ian’s breathing. They don’t stop until the john is standing next to the bed, exasperatedly holding out a pile of hundred dollar bills. 

“Can you go now? I have notes to go over for the meeting tomorrow.”

“Not even gonna let us shower, huh,” Mickey mutters, pushing Ian off so he can sit up.

“Surely there’s a shower at your domicile.”

What a fucking bitch of an old man. Mickey considers taking the cash then punching him in the face and breaking his goddamn jaw. Wait til he’s laid out, then go for the wallet. This class of man, there’s probably four credit cards in the thing. It’d be fuckin’ deserved, the asshole. 

On the other hand, Mickey’s still got a long fucking night ahead of him. He has to track down Svetlana, whether that’s at home or The Alibi, and give her her cunting money. Then pack a backpack’s worth of clothes to take over to Ian’s. Even once he gets back to Ian’s, he still needs to shower, and probably have sex with Ian one more time, considering his high sex drive. Kicking the shit out of Davey is just another task he’d have to do. Fuck it.

Mickey scoops his clothes from the floor and starts to get dressed. He lets Ian handle putting away the money, collecting the leftover condoms and the lube. The second his shoes are tied he’s crossing his arms, impatient to leave. 

In the burgundy carpeted hallway, Mickey turns to Ian. “You okay?” If he’s not, Mickey has no problem breaking back into the room and doing whatever makes Ian feel in control again. He will break, maim, or even kill, no question. Ian’s that level of family now, like Lip is for Mandy.

“Fine. I don’t want to go home yet. I’m wide awake and ready for the world to attack.”

“I have to go do some shit. You want to come with?”

“The fuck do you think?” Ian links his fingers with Mickey.

Just for now, Mickey can still allow it. The closer they get to home on the L, the less noticeable they can be. At some point one of them will have to slide over, put a seat between them. Hopefully Mickey will still have the slightly sore feeling that comes from rough sex to tide him over until the next time he and Ian can be alone. There’s never enough time alone with Ian, Mickey always wants more.


End file.
